to push that day in November.
First he attacked Sam’s belief system: sustainability. To Angus, green design was a cheap fad attracting people who didn’t have the chops to do the real work of preservation. Angus saw it as a parody of the craft, a mockery, and he ripped into Sam on that count.
Next he went for the sore spot: Sam’s sexuality. Angus knew how much those taunts devastated Sam, and he exploited it. He went after Sam’s attachment to Mom, his size, his health, his clothing. He was merciless, and it cut Sam to the bone.
That Sam wasn’t gay was beside the point. He liked women. A lot of women. But when Angus hit him with that, he leveled Sam. The proof was sitting right in front of me.
“Shan…” I murmured, glancing at her fingers as they traveled over the edges of the envelope. “Could you read through the legal bullshit? Just tell us what it says?”
She nodded, and slipped her finger under the flap of the envelope. Holding the folded pages in her hands, she paused and looked around the table.
“I think we should agree, before this goes any further, that we’re putting Angus behind us. He’s gone. No matter what we find in here, he’s gone, and we’re not reliving any of it.”
“Agreed,” Matt said.
Shannon turned her attention to the legal documents, and I studied my siblings in the thick silence that ensued. Sam was still locked in his angry sneer, busy mounting arguments against whatever Angus left in the will.
I tried to look away from the wordless communication passing between Matt and Lauren, but I wanted to learn the private language of people in love. It felt voyeuristic to watch them, yet it occurred to me that I understood nothing about the inner workings of a serious relationship.
Matt’s head rested on Lauren’s shoulder while her hands stroked his fingers. I thought of Andy’s fingers and their silken texture as my fingertips coasted over her skin.
Why the fuck was I still thinking about that?
From the corner of my eye, I saw Shannon lean back in her chair and drop her hands to her lap. “Holy shit,” she sighed.
“I called it. Rusty nails for the win,” I said.
“Don’t tell me,” Sam said. “He’s leaving us a hoard of milk crates and bottle caps from the past twenty years that he expects us to transform into a monument in his honor, and he’s leaving the house to a group of doomsday survivalists.”
“No, I got it,” Matt said. “He’s left fifty grand buried in coffee cans all over the yard, and we have to find them. He left the rest of his money in a Cayman account and lost the number, and the house is going to self-destruct after we sign these papers.”
“Wrong and wrong,” Riley disagreed. “He’s in debt at the dog track, and we have to cover his gambling losses unless we want some goodfellas to take out our kneecaps. And he burned all of our baby pictures and childhood mementos, and we each get a plastic baggie with the ashes. But they’re all unmarked because fuck us.”
“That one’s good,” I said.
“You’re all wrong,” she murmured. Pushing away from the table, Shannon grabbed the whiskey and glasses, quickly distributing them and uncapping the bottle with quivering hands. “Aunt Mae used to say ‘There’s a fine line between being an alcoholic and being an Irishman. Drunks are always assholes.’”
“That bad?” I asked when she poured three fingers into my glass.
“She also said ‘What whiskey won’t cure cannot be cured,’ so bottoms up, boys.”
“I never knew Aunt Mae was such a drunk, or a philosopher,” Riley said. “I guess we have something to be thankful for after all.”
“Oh yeah,” I replied. “She took a drink upstairs with her every night. An alligator could have been spooning with her in bed, and she never would have noticed.”
When the glasses were empty, Shannon nodded and passed the bottle around again. “Let me get this out.” She glanced at the document, the liquid in her glass
First he attacked Sam’s belief system: sustainability. To Angus, green design was a cheap fad attracting people who didn’t have the chops to do the real work of preservation. Angus saw it as a parody of the craft, a mockery, and he ripped into Sam on that count.
Next he went for the sore spot: Sam’s sexuality. Angus knew how much those taunts devastated Sam, and he exploited it. He went after Sam’s attachment to Mom, his size, his health, his clothing. He was merciless, and it cut Sam to the bone.
That Sam wasn’t gay was beside the point. He liked women. A lot of women. But when Angus hit him with that, he leveled Sam. The proof was sitting right in front of me.
“Shan…” I murmured, glancing at her fingers as they traveled over the edges of the envelope. “Could you read through the legal bullshit? Just tell us what it says?”
She nodded, and slipped her finger under the flap of the envelope. Holding the folded pages in her hands, she paused and looked around the table.
“I think we should agree, before this goes any further, that we’re putting Angus behind us. He’s gone. No matter what we find in here, he’s gone, and we’re not reliving any of it.”
“Agreed,” Matt said.
Shannon turned her attention to the legal documents, and I studied my siblings in the thick silence that ensued. Sam was still locked in his angry sneer, busy mounting arguments against whatever Angus left in the will.
I tried to look away from the wordless communication passing between Matt and Lauren, but I wanted to learn the private language of people in love. It felt voyeuristic to watch them, yet it occurred to me that I understood nothing about the inner workings of a serious relationship.
Matt’s head rested on Lauren’s shoulder while her hands stroked his fingers. I thought of Andy’s fingers and their silken texture as my fingertips coasted over her skin.
Why the fuck was I still thinking about that?
From the corner of my eye, I saw Shannon lean back in her chair and drop her hands to her lap. “Holy shit,” she sighed.
“I called it. Rusty nails for the win,” I said.
“Don’t tell me,” Sam said. “He’s leaving us a hoard of milk crates and bottle caps from the past twenty years that he expects us to transform into a monument in his honor, and he’s leaving the house to a group of doomsday survivalists.”
“No, I got it,” Matt said. “He’s left fifty grand buried in coffee cans all over the yard, and we have to find them. He left the rest of his money in a Cayman account and lost the number, and the house is going to self-destruct after we sign these papers.”
“Wrong and wrong,” Riley disagreed. “He’s in debt at the dog track, and we have to cover his gambling losses unless we want some goodfellas to take out our kneecaps. And he burned all of our baby pictures and childhood mementos, and we each get a plastic baggie with the ashes. But they’re all unmarked because fuck us.”
“That one’s good,” I said.
“You’re all wrong,” she murmured. Pushing away from the table, Shannon grabbed the whiskey and glasses, quickly distributing them and uncapping the bottle with quivering hands. “Aunt Mae used to say ‘There’s a fine line between being an alcoholic and being an Irishman. Drunks are always assholes.’”
“That bad?” I asked when she poured three fingers into my glass.
“She also said ‘What whiskey won’t cure cannot be cured,’ so bottoms up, boys.”
“I never knew Aunt Mae was such a drunk, or a philosopher,” Riley said. “I guess we have something to be thankful for after all.”
“Oh yeah,” I replied. “She took a drink upstairs with her every night. An alligator could have been spooning with her in bed, and she never would have noticed.”
When the glasses were empty, Shannon nodded and passed the bottle around again. “Let me get this out.” She glanced at the document, the liquid in her glass
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